Orrin's All-Time Top Ten List - Sports

I have been fortunate enough to share a love of baseball and a particular
interest in the Mets and the Red Sox with Roger Angell, though I've not
followed him into his current infatuation with the Yankees.
As a result, I've not only read all of his books, his name is also one
of the few whose appearance in The
New Yorker's Table of Contents suffices by itself to get me to buy
the magazine.

Since 1962, which was fortuitously the inaugural year of the Mets, Mr.
Angell has written several baseball essays a year for The New Yorker.
There's always one on Spring Training and one on the World Series, then
a couple of mid-season updates. The earliest pieces, covering the
years 1962 to 1972, were collected in The
Summer Game (1973). Subsequent five year chunks appeared in Five
Seasons (1978), Late
Innings (1982), and Season
Ticket (1988), then came Once
More Around the Park (1991), which mostly reprinted selections from
those prior volumes, all of which are, disgracefully, out of print.

Baseball has attracted an extravagantly talented assortment of writers
but no one has ever written more beautifully about the intricacies and
every day charms of the game than Angell, nor captured the idiosyncrasies
of individual players in greater detail. It's impossible to match
his prose, so let's allow him to speak for himself :

* Any baseball is beautiful. No other small
package comes as close to the ideal in design and utility.
It is a perfect object for a man's hand. Pick it
up and it instantly suggests its purpose: it is meant to
be thrown a considerable distance-thrown hard and
with precision. Its feel and heft are the
beginning of the sport's critical dimensions; if
it were a fraction of an inch larger or smaller, a few
centigrams heavier or lighter, the game of baseball
would be utterly different. Hold a baseball in
your hand ... Feel the ball, turn it over in your
hand; hold it across the seam or the other way, with
the seam just to the side of your middle finger.
Speculation stirs. You want to get outdoors and
throw this spare and sensual object to somebody
or, at the very least, watch somebody else throw
it. The game has begun.
-"On the Ball", Five
Seasons

* Baseball's clock ticks inwardly and silently, and
a man absorbed in a ball game is caught in a
slow, green place of removal and concentration and
in a tension that is screwed up slowly and ever
more tightly with each pitcher's windup and with
the almost imperceptible forward lean and little
half-step with which the fielders accompany each
pitch... Any persistent effort to destroy this
unique phenomenon, to "use up" baseball's time with
planned distractions, will in fact transform the
sport into another mere entertainment and thus hasten
its descent to the status of a boring and
stylized curiosity.
-The Summer Game

* Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all
you have to do is succeed utterly; keep hitting,
keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time.
You remain forever young.
-"The Interior Stadium",
The
Summer Game

* The box score, being modestly arcane, is a matter
of intense indifference, if not irritation, to the
non-fan. To the baseball-bitten, it is not only
informative, pictorial, and gossipy but lovely in
aesthetic structure. It represents happenstance
and physical flight exactly translated into figures and
history. Its totals - batters' credit vs. pitchers'
debit - balance as exactly as those in an accountant's
ledger. And a box score is more than a capsule archive.
It is a precisely etched miniature of the
sport itself, for baseball, in spite of its grassy
spaciousness and apparent unpredictability, is the most
intensely and satisfyingly mathematical of all our
outdoor sports. Every player in every game is
subjected to a cold and ceaseless accounting; no
ball is thrown and no base is gained without an
instant responding judgment - ball or strike, hit
or error, yea or nay - and an ensuing statistic. This
encompassing neatness permits the baseball fan,
aided by experience and memory, to extract from a
box score the same joy, the same hallucinatory reality,
that pickles the scalp of a musician when he
glances at a page of his score of Don Giovanni and
actually hears bassos and sopranos, woodwinds
and violins.
-"Box Scores",
The
Summer Game

* This is a linear sport. Something happens
and then something else happens, and then the next
man comes up and digs in at the plate. Here's the
pitch, and here, after a pause, is the next. There's
time to write it down in your scorecard or notebook,
and then perhaps to look about and reflect on
what's starting to happen out there now. It's not
much like the swirl and blur of hockey and
basketball, or the highway crashes of the NFL.

Baseball is the writer's game, and its train of thought,
we come to sense, is a shuttle, carrying us
constantly forward to the next pitch or inning,
or the sudden double into the left-field corner, but
we keep hold of the other half of our ticket, for
the return trip on the same line. We anticipate
happily, and, coming home, reenter an old landscape
brightened with fresh colors. Baseball games
and plays and mannerisms-the angle of a cap-fade
stubbornly and come to mind unbidden, putting
us back in some particular park on that special
October afternoon or June evening. The players are
as young as ever, and we, perhaps not entirely old.
-Once More Around the
Park

* There are baseball fans, it must be admitted, who
don't like Tim McCarver's stuff. After they've
listened to the celebrated baseball analyst working
another World Series game, say, or a Fox
Saturday Baseball Game of the Week, or a WNYW Yankees
game, with Bobby Murcer, or, before
that for many years, a Mets yawner or triumph with
Ralph Kiner as sidekick, certain friends of
mine have found fault. A few of them sound apologetic
about it, as if they have failed Tim
somehow; others plain can't stand him. Because I
don't understand any of this, I have been at pains
to listen to their whinings, which can be easily
summarized: Tim McCarver likes to talk. He laughs
and enjoys himself at ballgames. He makes jokes
-- puns, even. He uses fancy words. He's excitable
-- he gets carried away by the baseball. He's always
going on and on about some little thing. He
thinks he knows how the game should be played. He
knows too much.
-"The Bard in the Booth",
The
New Yorker, September 6, 1999

There are of course those philistines who dislike baseball, and even
baseball fans who simply dislike this kind of myth-tinged writing about
the game. For the rest of us, the essays of Roger Angell are a must.

We've had a particularly tough winter here in New England--as I write,
it is March 31st and we just got another foot of snow. But pick up
any one of Roger Angell's books, turn to just about any one of his essays
(though you might want to avoid a few of those in Late Innings,
when he got caught up in the hysteria over rising salaries and free agency),
read one of his descriptions of a play or a player and he effortlessly
transports you into that Interior Stadium. There are really only
two sports that live on in our minds : golf and baseball. In fact,
many years ago I learned a trick to help you get to sleep if you're having
trouble--as you lay abed, either play eighteen holes at your favorite course
or figure out how you would pitch to your favorite team for nine innings.
It's no coincidence that these two sports, which have lent themselves to
most of the truly great literature of sport, are the two which can be summoned
thus in the imagination.

Roger Angell's writing is so evocative, it too seems to tap into your
store of memories,--of players, plays, and games--enabling you to visualize
most of the scenes he writes about. Writing in general, and sports
writing in particular, just doesn't get any better than this.